


the best and most beautiful things must be felt

by braveatheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-02 13:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10219250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braveatheart/pseuds/braveatheart
Summary: There are four basic human emotions: happiness, sadness, anger, and fear. Over time, Clarke learns that Lexa is, in fact, human.





	1. Chapter 1

I. Happiness

The hallways of the Ark are spacious, a generous ten or eleven feet in width if Clarke was guessing. One could walk about the ship without feeling crowded, without bumping into anyone. However, as Clarke walks through the halls with a guest not-so-welcomed, the angry and distrusting stares they’re receiving are stifling. The air feels heavy with tension of the memories of not many months ago.

“Your people do not seem to have moved on as well as you have,” Lexa says quietly as they turn around a rather sharp bend. She nearly knocks into Clarke as the younger of the two pauses to let someone pass in front of her.

Clarke sighs as a twinge of sadness, the last little bit that still hangs on in her heart, pangs in her chest. “No, they definitely haven’t. I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“I’ve experienced much, Clarke,” Lexa says as they come to a stop outside Clarke’s room. “A people’s disapproval is nothing.”

Clarke sighs, then nods. There isn’t much she can do about the Arkadians’ inability to forgive just yet, so she decides not to acknowledge the topic any further. Instead, with a last quick sweep of her eyes across the hall, she faces her door and turns the handle. The door pushes open with a quiet click, and the scent of berries wafts to her nose immediately.

She steps forward into the room, her eyes falling to the berry-scented candle burning in the corner of her room next to her bed. She feels the corner of her mouth twitch upward as she realizes Lexa’s love of candles, and she’s about to say something when a sound catches her attention.

The television a few feet away is still on, a movie still playing on repeat from the previous night. She must’ve forgotten to turn it off when she left this morning, she realizes.

“What is that?”

Lexa’s quiet, inquiring voice comes from the doorway, where she still has not stepped inside. Clarke can’t help but notice just how out of place she looks in the moment. Her body is covered in her full armor; even her red sash trails behind her magnificently. Her shoulderpad looks bulky and mechanical, much like the Ark, but still, she looks far too threatening in the casual environment of Clarke’s room.

“You can come in, you know,” Clarke replies, putting the television on mute. She places the remote on the table in front of the old, tattered couch that she used to watch football with her dad on. There’s still a divet on his side of the cushions from the countless hours of watching.

Lexa practically tiptoes inside the room, closing the door behind her tentatively. She’s clearly uncomfortable, having never been anywhere like this.

Clarke steps closer, noting the way Lexa stands back to give her space, and slips off her boots. She places them in their usual spot, against the wall just a few feet from the door.

“Take your armor off, stay a while,” Clarke says, standing back upright a mere four or five feet from Lexa, now. The Commander opens her mouth slightly as if to speak, her eyes darting between Clarke’s but no words come out. After a few moments of attempting to respond, she simply closes her mouth and nods. It’s endearing, Clarke decides, the way Lexa seems so nervous.

After a few minutes of unbuckling and unzipping, Lexa is left clad in just black pants that cling to her form, a slightly baggy long-sleeved green shirt that reminds Clarke of the dark moss that grows in the woods, and grey socks that are pulled up over the bottom of the brunette’s pantlegs. It takes Clarke a few seconds to realize that it's to help her boots fit better, and she has to bite back a grin at the idea of this tiny, itty bitty hidden flaw in the seemingly larger-than-life Commander of the Clans.

Lexa looks like she could jump from a window at any given moment, and Clarke is determined to relax her.

“What, again, was the purpose of coming here?” Lexa asks hesitantly, wary of sounding rude. She follows as Clarke beckons for her to come sit on the couch. They sit ridiculously formally with plenty of space between them, both feet on the floor and backs straight, not even leaning against the cushions behind them.

“To Arkadia?” Clarke questions.

“No,” Lexa replies, her voice softer now, “this room. Your living quarters.”

Again, it’s all Clarke can do not to smile. She wonders for a moment why it's so easy now to be happy with her betrayer, while just two short weeks ago she nearly killed her upon their reunion after Mount Weather.

“You have just three hours before you have to return to Polis,” Clarke says. “You deserve time to relax.”

Lexa quirks her eyebrow as though the idea is foreign to her, and Clarke realizes that perhaps it is.

“I do relax, Clarke,” she insists, determined to convince the younger of the two. It’s a hard sell, though; she’s so tense that her shoulders are crawling up to her ears. Clarke simply doesn’t acknowledge Lexa’s response, and instead turns back to the television. She reaches for the remote and pauses the movie, then starts it from the beginning.

When she realizes what movie it is, she finds herself torn. It’s one of her favorite movies, a non-family friendly holiday comedy that she and Wells had come across just three Christmases ago. She remembers the way they’d laughed the first time they saw it, and it still makes her stomach ache with roars of laughter even still. She has no problem watching it for what must be the millionth time, but she wonders what the Commander will think of it.

Clarke decides against her better judgement and, her inhibition impaired by the exhaustion of an excited, sleepless night before, lets the movie play.

The first fifteen to twenty minutes is rather awkward. As usual, Clarke finds herself stifling giggles, not wanting to be too obnoxious. Lexa sits on her end of the couch, muscles clenched so tight they must hurt and face stone cold and expressionless. She watches the screen in silence, showing no semblance of humor or enjoyment at all. Clarke begins to believe that she’s made a mistake by choosing this movie.

As the part appears where Madea is taking a greeting job at a store called Tifton’s, Clarke can no longer hold in her laughter. She allows a real laugh, a rather loud one if she must admit, and in the corner of her eyes she sees something that stops her in her tracks. Lexa rests one arm on the armrest, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes are diverted, staring at the posters on Clarke’s wall, and the blonde decides she simply can’t miss the opportunity.

“What are you doing, Commander?”

Lexa clears her throat, and her nose twitches before she removes her hand. Clarke grins knowingly, but decides to play the brunette’s game anyway.

“I was merely observing your quarters, Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice slightly higher than usual. She sounds girlish; her ferocity is diminishing as time goes on, Clarke notices.

“Uh huh,” the blonde teases back. When the corner of Lexa’s mouth tilts up in the tiniest of smiles, Clarke takes it as a personal victory.

They continue to watch the movie, and over the course of the next half hour or so, much changes. The painfully formal positions they’d taken up before slowly dissipate. Feet are pulled onto the couch, and they lean back against the cushions. Lexa’s arms settle in her lap, her hands wrapped around her sides as though she clings to herself. It’s nearly, if Clarke dares say it, cute.

The movie plays on, and the laughter that spills from Clarke’s lips doesn’t stop. At particularly funny parts, she finds herself letting out big, boisterous bellows that are undoubtedly heard from the hallway, but she can’t bring it in her to care. Normally, she might be concerned with sounding so obnoxious, but something else has caught her attention.

With a giddiness in her chest, Clarke realizes that Lexa is laughing.

They start as quiet chuckles at first, barely audible to anyone not listening. Lexa’s hand still covers her mouth to hide it, but it’s there. However, her hand becomes of no use when the laughter can no longer be contained behind her lips. At one of Clarke’s favorite parts, she hears a real laugh burst forth, not near as loud as Clarke’s but a real laugh all the same.

“So, the Great Commander does know what humor is,” Clarke prods, her toes reaching out and gently tapping Lexa’s calf. Lexa merely rolls her eyes, a small smile still on her face.

It only escalates from there.  Once Lexa allows herself to laugh, she ceases to hold back.

One of Clarke’s favorite lines is coming up, and though she doesn’t know why she finds it so funny, it has her crying with laughter every time. She feels laughter bubbling up in her chest preemptively, a solid minute before the line even arrives. Lexa eyes her curiously, but doesn’t question her aloud.

“We gonna come out here tomorrow, you gonna be a black Statue of Liberty… just sitting down on your ass.”

Before Clarke even has time to laugh, Lexa lets out two sounds, both equally pleasing and amusing to the blonde on the other end of the couch. First, she snorts, _actually_ snorts with laughter, and Clarke thinks she’s going to melt right then and there. But oh, is she wrong… for when the Commander then proceeds to laugh harder than ever, her laugh jumping octaves and pittering away to silent shakes and watering eyes, the younger of the two nearly dissolves into the couch in awe. She’s grateful to be laughing just as hard, for it hides the blush rising in her cheeks rather well.

The movie eventually finishes, and Clarke must admit, she’s disappointed. As the credits begin to roll, she says nothing, her eyes shifting from the screen to the tanned woman sitting next to her. There’s still a grin on her face that spreads ear to ear, an occasional chuckle tumbling from her lips as she remembers some part of the film. She pads at her eyes with the edge of her shirt sleeves, ridding the evidence of moisture collected there. Clarke drinks the sight in, wondering if she’ll ever see it again, and commits it to memory. She’s certain there’s a pencil and sketchpad in her future, for this is a sight she doesn’t ever want to forget.

Alas, as the credits end and the brunette composes herself, Lexa the girl disappears and the Commander returns. She clears her throat and stands stiffly, glancing at the time. She has but ten minutes before she has to leave, and it’ll take nearly all ten to get her armor back on and walk out to the gate.

She stands stiffly, all semblance of relaxation gone. In silence, she pads over to the place where her boots and armor lie, her feet making soft thumps as she walks across the carpeted floor. Clarke stands and follows slowly a few silent minutes later, wary of crossing some unspoken boundary. Against her better judgement, she reaches for the shoulderguard on the floor, the last of the armor to go on.

When she stands behind Lexa and guides the armor into place, the brunette doesn’t protest. Instead, she murmurs a thank you in her native tongue without thought and fastens the buckle.

From her vantage point, Clarke swears she can see the edge of the Commander’s cheek pushing outward in the hint of a smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for such wonderful feedback! I will be doing all four emotions.

II. Sadness

Months pass from the day that Lexa first came to Arkadia, and much changes in those months. There are small battles between the citizens of Arkadia and the members of the Twelve Clans, as some of both of their peoples are not so forgiving or forgetful as others. The tension of Mount Weather hangs over all their heads for the better part of half a year since the day it fell. Finally, when the cold is all but gone, when the leaves are green and the sun radiates constant warmth, the last battle is fought and a peace treaty is made. The wrongdoings of both people are at the least put aside, as both people possess resources and tools that the other need. Both want to thrive, and it is in their best interest to work together, not against each other, to achieve that. Thus, on the longest day of the year, the twelve clans become thirteen. As the sun sets low in the sky, the Chancellor is branded with the Commander’s mark, and celebration commences well into the night.

Despite the hours of celebration she’s just returning to her room from, Clarke is restless. The induction of Arkadia as the thirteenth clan opens so many doors. There is much to learn yet about the Grounder culture, certainly much more about their ways that Clarke does not yet know. And, there is much to teach. The Grounders are stuck in a very primal, basic world; they know little of technology, of modern traditions and ideas. Clarke’s mind races with the many things she could teach and the many things she wants to ask. As she paces her room, eyes tired but body alight, she knows sleep will not come to her. Before she realizes precisely what she’s doing, her feet guide her out the door and toward the gates.

The night guards don’t need to question where she’s going as she approaches the giant metal barrier between Arkadia and the outside world. Instead, the man sat closest to the wheel that opens the gate gives her a kind, knowing smile, and turns the wheel to let Clarke out.

The next few minutes of walking go by without thought, and only when the blonde is staring at a burlap entrance guarded by two ever-familiar Grounders does Clarke snap back to reality.

“Wanheda,” Nyko says, his voice slightly raised and accentuated. Clarke suspects that he’d said her name, but she had not heard. Her eyes snap to his.

“The Commander needs rest,” he says, his voice gentle. Clarke’s heart falls slightly, as it sounds that he is insinuating she needs to leave. Then, he surprises her with the smallest of smiles. “Try not to keep her up for too long.”

Clarke smiles back, a warmth spreading through her chest at his words and surprisingly welcoming nature. She nods once to him, then turns her head to face Indra, who stands guard on the right side of the tent. Her face is stern as ever, but there’s a softness in her eyes that puts Clarke at ease. They nod curtly at the same time, then Clarke slips inside the tent quietly.

It’s darker than usual. The usual half million candles lit is reduced to just two; one near the entrance and one on the small table next to Lexa’s bed. The one on the table illuminates Lexa’s curled up form, hidden beneath the furs.

At first, Clarke wonders if she’s come when Lexa had already gone to sleep, and she feels slightly embarrassed for even thinking to come at such an hour. Quickly, though, her fears are disputed. The covers pull back in silence, and Lexa’s hand reaches out to softly pat the space next to her. It is then that Clarke realizes Lexa lies on only one half of the bed, as if she were making space for someone to come. The thought sends a rush through Clarke’s chest, and she bites back the grin that threatens to show on her face. Instead, she strips off her outer clothes until she’s clad in just her chest binder and undershorts. (This is not uncommon. The months that have passed have broken down many barriers between the two leaders.)

“What keeps you awake, Wanheda?” Lexa asks as Clarke crawls beneath the furs. The heat is nearly stifling, but if it means being closer to the brunette speaking softly to her now, she decides it's a sacrifice worth making.

“I know so much about your culture when it comes to war and pain,” Clarke begins, the words tumbling from her lips. “But so little about the better parts. The happier parts.”

Lexa considers this for a moment. “I know little of the better parts of your people, as well.”

They’re silent for a moment, both pondering this realization, minds racing with possibilities that fill in the blanks of the unknown.

“Do you have stories?” Lexa inquires, her eyes finally opening. They scoot upward slightly, so that the covers come off their shoulders and they can prop their heads on their elbows, cushioned by the pillows beneath them. Now that they’re above the covers, Clarke revels in the way Lexa looks in that moment. Hair down, no longer in intricate braids, all makeup washed from her face, her perfect imperfections only just visible in the candlelight. This is a person few get to know, and Clarke never dares take it for granted.

“Of course we do,” she replies, pushing a wild strand of her from her face. “Do you?”

Lexa nods. Emerald eyes dart between Clarke’s blue ones, studying her closely.

“Would you like me to tell you one?” she asks. “I can recall one I was told in the few years before my training.”

Clarke allows herself a smile now, indulging in the image of a five or six year old Lexa sitting before a wise old warrior, looking absolutely dumbfounded with childish wonder as he tells her a story.

“I’d love to hear,” the blonde replies. Lexa’s lips curve upward in the tiniest semblance of a smile, and she begins.

The longer the brunette speaks, the harder it is for Clarke to reign in her happiness. At first, Lexa tells the story rather monotonously, stumbling over the beginning a bit as she tries to recall it correctly. Once she remembers, though, Clarke learns that Lexa is one of the best storytellers she’s ever met. Her face is animated with true excitement and involvement in the story, and her free hand gestures the most action filled parts. Whether she realizes it or not, Lexa’s voice changes as the characters change, and Clarke’s fairly certain it’s the first time she’s ever thought the word “cute” in relation to the Commander of the Twelve Clans.

So, as Lexa tells what Clarke quickly recognizes as one of her own childhood favorites, Jack and the Beanstalk, the blonde listens with a smile that grows wider by the minute. When Lexa finishes, Clarke’s cheeks ache from smiling. It’s an ache she’d take any day; they deserve this kind of ache over the pain they’ve faced in their short lives.

“Whoever told you that story must’ve been quite the storyteller.”

Lexa smiles, and for a moment, there’s a flash of sadness in her eyes. Clarke wants to question it, but decides not to.

There’s a beat of silence between them, but only just. Another question springs to Clarke’s mind.

“Do you have music?”

Lexa pauses for a moment. Her hair is falling in front of her face, its natural wave beginning to show through. Clarke resists the urge to push it back, albeit reluctantly. Lexa beats her to it and pushes it back in one swift move. It makes the younger woman’s heart flutter, but she does her best to ignore the sensation.

“We do have music, but not for entertainment, if that’s what you ask,” the Commander answers. Her voice is low, and quieter, now. Clarke smiles to herself in the dim light, realizing Lexa’s finally tiring herself out.

“That’s what I wondered, yes,” Clarke replies, feeling the heaviness of her own eyes. She doesn’t remember what the time was last she looked at the clock, but she swears she can see the beginnings of twilight through the burlap enclosing them.

“Can you sing, Clarke?” Lexa asks, and Clarke’s eyes snap back to the woman lying next to her. With a small bit of awkward shuffling, she lets her arm rest at her side and lays her head down on the pillow. She’s looking up at Clarke now from below, almost expectantly.

Clarke hesitates. She can sing, yes, and it’s another of her favorite ways to express herself in such a cold and monotonous world. But the only person she’s ever sung in front of has been dead for years, and he wasn’t allowed to judge her. Parents are practically obligated to praise their child no matter how good or bad they may be.

But, it’s late, or early, perhaps. Clarke is exhausted, and Lexa doesn’t seem like she’s awake enough to process anything. It’s fairly low-risk, Clarke evaluates.

“I can sing,” she responds quietly, still hesitant. Lexa senses Clarke’s apprehensiveness and places a cold hand over the blonde’s.

“Sing me the most beautiful song you know,” she says. The words sound like a demand, but Clarke knows they’re a hopeful request in disguise. With warmth in her chest, she nods, agreeing. A song comes to her mind immediately, and though it causes the warmth to become an ache, she proceeds anyway. She clears her throat and tries to swallow down the lump in it before she begins.

“I took the supermarket flowers from the windowsill

I took the day old tea from the cup,” she sings. Her voice is quiet and tremulous, but still, Lexa smiles immediately. It’s one of her genuine smiles, the kind that stretches to her ears and lights up her eyes. The sight gives Clarke a bit of confidence as she carries on.

“Packed up the photo album Matthew had made

Memories of a life that’s been loved.”

Clarke’s heart is already aching. Lexa shifts next to her, seeming to sense the tone of the song now. Her smile has faltered, and she’s left with awe and curiosity in her eyes as she stares up at Clarke from the pillow she lays on. Her hand tightens around Clarke’s.

“Took the get well soon cards and stuffed animals  
Poured the old ginger beer down the sink   
Dad always told me, "don't you cry when you're down"   
But mum, there's a tear every time that I blink.”

She doesn’t want her voice to break, but it does. She looks upward, staring at the ceiling for a few silent moments as she wills her throat to relax and her eyes to stop burning. Lexa’s fingers curl around her own, warmth returning to the once cold digits. If Clarke wasn’t so tired, she’d think she felt the brunette’s hand shaking.

She knows that if she looks at Lexa, she’ll break, because the Commander has a way of seeing her that no one else ever has. She decides that staring at the unlit candle behind Lexa’s head is a better idea. With a ragged breath, she continues.

“Oh I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know

A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved

So I’ll sing hallelujah

You were an angel in the shape of my mum

When I fell down you’d be there holding me up

Spread your wings as you go, and when

God takes you back he’ll sing hallelujah

You’re home.”

It’s too much. She hadn’t sung the song in years, not since she was in her cell on the Ark. Not since long, lonely nights where she could only talk to the moon, and she was hoping that he was there somewhere. Walking the surface, defying the laws of space, living and breathing and only miles away (or so it seemed.) She held onto that hope to get her through, but now the memory threatens to swallow her whole.

She can’t bear to look at Lexa, yet, but something is wrong. What she thought she noticed earlier was not just a figment of her imagination; Lexa’s hand shakes as it wraps around her own. The Commander’s grip is tighter now, yet it is slack and weak at the same time.

It is a quiet sniffle that makes Clarke bring herself to look down. Nothing could have readied her for what she finds.

In all these months, nearly a year now since the day they met, Clarke has never seen Lexa emote. Yes, there have been soft eyes and gentle words and moments in which Lexa was not quite so strong and unbreakable, where her facade of invincibility fell away. But those were nothing like this. Nothing had ever been so...raw. So real.

Yet now, as twilight dawns upon them, and exhaustion pulls at their walls and barriers, Lexa is small and the weakness in her shines through. Her face is half-buried in her arm, but it does not hide the way her eyebrows are furrowed together and the small droplets that quietly fall to the soft sheet beneath them. She sniffles again, quieter this time, and takes a shuddering breath.

The sound breaks Clarke in two. She holds back the sob rising in her throat, but allows the tears in her eyes to slip down her burning cheeks.

“I am sorry, Clarke, for this weakness,” Lexa whispers. Her voice is gravelly and low. “This is not like me.”

“Never apologize,” Clarke whispers back, unable to trust her voice. Lexa doesn’t respond. Instead, she just continues staring at the sheets, tears dripping, sniffling quietly.

“Ai nomon,” she says finally.

It takes Clarke a few seconds to process, as she’s still learning Trigedasleng, but _nomon_ is a word she knows. Her heart flutters achingly in her chest. Family is not a topic often discussed in Grounder culture from what Clarke’s picked up on, and the word Lexa spoke is one she’s heard just two or three times in almost twelve months. A barely audible gasp slips involuntarily past Clarke’s lips.

“When?” she asks softly, her thumb absently swiping across Lexa’s hand. It continues to shake in her iron but gentle grip.

“I was four,” Lexa replies almost instantly. She gently wriggles free from Clarke’s grip on her hand and swipes her forefingers across her cheeks, brushing away the dampness tracking down them.

“Why?”

“I do not know what your customs are, but in our culture, a man is never to hit his wife,” the brunette replies shakily. She shudders, a shiver rippling through her body for a split second. “Nor his children.”

Clarke isn’t sure she follows yet, so she continues to listen. The lump in her throat does not ease.

“One day Mother had enough, and she killed Father. I don’t think she meant to, but I don’t think she was sorry, either,” Lexa admits. “Everyone loved Father, though; no one believed her when she spoke of his abuse. When she killed him, she was seen only as a murderer.”

It clicked, suddenly.

“She was sentenced to death,” Clarke finishes, and Lexa nods. Her eyes well with fresh tears, but this time she doesn’t reach to wipe them away. Instead, she reaches for Clarke’s hand once more and holds tightly to the calloused yet soft skin.

A horrendous thought comes to the blonde, and she tries to suppress it. Her curiosity gets the best of her, however, and she mutters the question before she realizes what she’s doing.

“Did you see it?”

Lexa’s jaw clenches. Silence.

Clarke shudders, her stomach suddenly turning.

They don’t speak much for a while after that. Clarke longs to hold the Commander, to reach out and pull her body - so much smaller than she realized before - into her own, to wrap her arms tightly around the older woman. She admits, also, that she yearns to be held just the same. Yet, she refrains. Much as she might want it, it doesn’t feel like they’re there yet. She instead opts to simply hold Lexa’s hand as tears fall silently from her eyes and onto the sheets. While the brunette isn’t looking, she allows a few tears to fall from her own eyes, hoping that the tracks on her cheeks will no longer be visible when Lexa’s cries finally ebb.

Clarke shifts her position from propping herself up on her elbow to lying down the same way Lexa is. She watches quietly through blurry vision, strangely mesmerized by the sight before her. Her eyes trace the tracks on Lexa’s cheeks, the moisture collecting on her eyelashes, the furrow of her brows, the way her lips tremble and the vein on the left side of her forehead is more visible as she struggles to stifle sobs. This soft, broken girl is the same powerful woman who leads thirteen clans every day. Clarke can’t wrap her head around it.

Slowly, Lexa’s face relaxes. The tears stop coming, her muscles stop straining to contain her cries, and her weary, wet eyes fall closed. Ragged breaths turn slow and deep. With a pang in her heart, Clarke realizes that the Commander has cried herself to sleep.

Exhausted as she may be, the blonde can’t find sleep just yet. It is not until after another hour of watching Lexa, the soft and beautiful girl sleeping next to her, that she finally falls asleep to the thought of how lucky she is to see this Lexa - the real Lexa. The last thing she registers is the Commander’s hand tightening ever so slightly around her own, and whispered words that she doesn’t quite hear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! I'm a bit rusty, so I hope this is as enjoyable as I intend it to be :)

III. Anger

 

Lexa is still. Her jaw is set, locked so tightly it looks as though it should hurt, and her eyes do not move. She is so motionless that it Clarke realizes she’s not even certain the Commander breathes. It is as though the life has been sucked out of her, leaving only a statue where she once stood.

“Heda? Did you hear me?”

A man stands before Lexa, his curly hair and long beard matted and saturated, peering up at the Commander with apprehension. He is wary, watching Lexa as if he is afraid she may suddenly strike. His hands tremble, though he tries to mask this weakness as he clamps them together in front of him. They fall slack before his torso.

“Yes, Alek,” Lexa says finally, her eyes slowly glancing downward to meet the shaken man. “I did.”

There’s a beat of silence, and no one moves. 

“How many were lost?” the Commander asks. Clarke can hear the way she speaks as if she doesn’t truly want to know. Yet, it is her duty to know, so she asks anyway.

“Nearly 80 men, women, and children when I was sent to inform you. There are many wounded,” Alek replies, his voice tremulous. His eyes fall to the concrete floor, and exhaustion creeps into his expression. He is as dejected and defeated as Clarke has ever seen a Grounder. The blonde’s eyes return to Lexa, and she studies the Commander’s expression carefully. She searches for some indication of the brunette’s reaction, but there is nothing. Only steel stares back at her.

Lexa looks past Alek, now, and finds the eyes of her guards. They straighten their backs slightly and fold their arms behind their backs, awaiting command. Lexa lifts her chin, and the muscle behind her jaw tightens.

“Lay waste to Ice Nation immediately,” she orders without hesitation. The guards give curt nods, and the looming glass doors open quickly as they exit. The ambassadors of the thirteen clans and a few concerned citizens remain in the throne room, looking to the Commander for some sort of guidance.

Lexa stares blankly back at them. Rather, her eyes bore through them; she appears hollow and lifeless, and Clarke can’t read her. She’s gone numb.

Despite this, she finds her voice. She refocuses on the people standing before her and clears her throat.

“Go home,” she tells them simply, unwavering. “Go home to your families.”

She says nothing more, but no one moves. This simple instruction doesn’t seem like enough, but it is all the Commander offers. The silence in the room leaves Clarke’s ears ringing uncomfortably, and she swallows in attempt to make it stop. 

After a few heavy moments, the ambassadors begin to usher everyone out of the overcrowded room. Lexa stands dormant before her throne, arms crossed behind her back, watching as the room empties. Soon, only Clarke and Titus remain.

“I need to make plans to ensure the safety of the other clans. This massacre has proved that there is not enough security,” Lexa states, looking nowhere in particular. She trudges toward the balcony that overlooks Polis, nearly dragging her feet as she moves. She looks as though her limbs are made of lead, and every step takes great effort. 

Her message is clear; she’s asking to be left alone. Titus dips his head in silence though the Commander cannot see, and he spins on his heels swiftly before heading for the door. The giant pane of translucent glass closes with a soft click behind him. Now, it is only Clarke and Lexa in the empty and silent throne room.

“Perhaps my intent was unclear,” Lexa says cooly, only just loud enough for Clarke to hear though her back is turned. “I would like to be alone.”

Clarke’s lips part as she prepares her rebuttal, but she falters. Since Mount Weather, the two Hedas have only grown closer. Though neither will admit it, their relationship has budded into something more than they expected. Still, there is no way to define it, so they don’t. They simply are.

Despite this continual closeness, Clarke isn’t certain that she has earned her right yet to defy Lexa, even if in the best intentions.

When she sees the way Lexa’s body heaves with labored breaths, however, Clarke throws caution to the side and acts against her better judgement.

“I know,” she replies simply, the two simple words softening her blatant ignorance of Lexa’s wishes. Though her words assert confidence, she feels wary, wondering if she made a move too bold. She takes a few tentative steps toward the balcony, her footfalls seeming to echo off the empty walls. 

For a moment, Lexa doesn’t respond. She stills again, the heaving of her body ceasing as silence falls over them once again. Clarke feels her heartbeat hammering in her throat, her chest tightening in a strange sort of fear. 

In an instant, Lexa retreats from the balcony and charges toward one of the metal sheets that stand on either side of the throne. She draws her fist back and plummets it into the metal, letting out a violent cry as her knuckles collide with the harsh metal. The sound echoes infinitely with the reverberation of the sheet.

Somehow, Clarke isn’t startled. She doesn’t even flinch. She remains, steadfast in her spot, and simply watches in silence as the Commander subtly shakes her hand. Bruises are already beginning to form at the peaks of her knuckles, and black blood is dripping from an open wound across the index knuckle. Lexa’s breath shudders, ever so slightly, at the sudden onset of pain.

“I am sorry, Clarke,” she snarls. Her voice is strained and rough like gravel, as if each word takes extraordinary effort to produce. Had the blonde known no better, she’d think Lexa was being ingenuine. “Please do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” Clarke reassures, taking a short stride toward the Commander. The brunette slowly paces a short path now, her injured hand trembling involuntarily. Her dripping black eyes bore into the concrete below. 

They stay there that way in silence for a few minutes, Clarke estimates. Lexa paces a rut into the ground, and Clarke stands vigil, patiently waiting.

Finally, the Commander speaks.

“Please forgive my weakness, Clarke.”

Clarke sighs and shakes her head, allowing herself a few more steps toward Lexa. The gap between them is nearly closed as Clarke stands in front of the brunette, stopping her in her tracks. 

Lexa averts her gaze in favor of the throne next to them. The muscle behind her jaw clenches and relaxes every so often, and Clarke can hear the Commander’s labored breathing. She is still seething beneath her calm facade.

“You always apologize when you don’t need to,” the blonde tells her, voice soft and soothing. Her lips part, preparing to remind Lexa that she is allowed to feel, but refrains. Instead, she simply stands there in the quiet, waiting for Lexa’s next move.

“It is never enough,” Lexa mutters, her eyes falling to the concrete once again. She shifts uncomfortably, seeming to search for an escape from the emotion, but does not budge. Instead, she locks her jaw tighter yet as she focuses on the grey of the floor beneath them.

Clarke remains silent, listening intently. Her head cocks to the side, and she trains her eyes on the brunette’s emerald orbs as they dart back and forth. Lexa draws in a long, heavy breath, then lets it out slowly in an attempt to calm herself, but it is no use.

She parts her lips, searching for words, but comes up empty. Clarke can sense the way she’s trying to express her feelings, to get it out so that it is not stuck creating a whirlwind in her mind. Yet, the harder she tries, the more she stumbles. She huffs in frustration and spins around, pacing anew.

Cautiously, Clarke begins to tap on the glass.

“What is never enough?” she asks. She doesn’t move from where she stands, but turns her body so that she may face the Commander. 

“80 people died today, Clarke,” Lexa says, though it sounds less like a statement and more like a realization. “80 of my people, under my watch, were massacred.”

Clarke sighs, feeling the heaviness of the day’s events settle on her chest. It threatens to suffocate her, but she pushes it down. She’ll grieve the losses later on her own, but her concern is with the living for the moment.

“Do you blame yourself?” she gently presses, knowing the answer as soon as she asks. Lexa chuckles humorously, and a chill runs down Clarke’s spine.

“How could I not? I am the Commander of the Clans, Clarke,” she spits back, emphasizing her title with a tone that mimics sarcasm. “It is my duty to protect the lives of everyone under my jurisdiction.”

“You are one person, Lexa,” Clarke says, feeling bolder as she steps toward the Commander again. Her voice is firmer now, but still gentle. “You can’t be everywhere at once.”

“I have to be!” 

Lexa spins around to face Clarke now, and the forest in her eyes is ablaze. Clarke barely has time to react before the Commander continues, her voice rising with every word.

“I have to be! I am supposed to PROTECT these people!”

She steps toward Clarke, almost threateningly so, but Clarke doesn’t move. She remains drilled to her spot.

“Eighty people, Clarke! Eighty!” Lexa continues. “When I’m not everywhere, people DIE. I LET THEM DIE!”

This time, Clarke breaks her silence. 

“Did your hands commit these murders, Lexa?” she asks. She feels a pang of fear at the idea of Lexa shouldering yet another massacre as her responsibility, her fault, when the woman already is buried in bodies.

“They might as well have, because I was supposed to protect them,” she growls back, no longer yelling but speaking with such venom and anger that Clarke wonders if she might prefer the yelling instead. A darkness settles over Lexa, pooling beneath her eyes. They look more like coal than emeralds, now.

“How were you supposed to be there? How were you supposed to know?” Clarke urges, hoping something will get through to her. Much as she would like to believe, she knows that won’t be happening anytime soon.

“I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERY LIFE IN THESE CLANS AND I FAILED THEM!”

Lexa is truly screaming now, gesturing madly toward herself. “I DID! I FAILED THEM!”

Her voice gives out on her last words, but she isn’t ready to give in. She speaks again, but her voice is broken and raspy. “I failed, Clarke.”

She turns around slowly and leans against a table behind her, her energy depleting in a matter of seconds. She looks hollow and defeated, and the sight jars Clarke. She has never seen Lexa seem so empty and beaten down. The person before her does not look like the Commander of the Clans. She does not even look like the person crying in her bed as she grieves her late mother. 

With an aching gnawing at her chest, Clarke realizes that the person before her is Lexa the girl. Not the Commander, not the woman who’s lost much. This is Lexa, the girl locked beneath that all. It is a beautifully tragic sight, and it awakens a sensation that Clarke can’t quite discern.

She knows it’s stupid. She knows she’s probably going to regret it. She knows she’ll likely be pushed away, possibly literally. She knows it’ll probably ruin everything.

Still, Clarke can’t stop herself from closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around the fragile girl from behind and burying her face in tangled brunette hair. She can feel the way Lexa’s body trembles and heaves with suppressed cries. In the otherwise silent room, the only sound is the soft huffs of breath as the Commander stifles her sobs.

Clarke waits for the rejection, but it doesn’t come. Her heart hammers painfully in her chest, and she is so afraid that her knees threaten to buckle at any moment. Still, she stands strong, determined to be the support that Lexa needs. She allows her eyes to fall shut, only for a moment, and her arms tighten their grip around the Commander’s middle. Every shudder makes the crack in her heart just that much deeper, and she is dangerously close to shattering.

They stay this way for several minutes, neither one of them speaking. Slowly, Lexa’s tears ebb and she can breathe again, albeit ragged and stuttering. The hair that frames her face is matted to her tear-stained cheeks, and Clarke suppresses the urge to push it back. Lexa stands, slowly and achingly as she straightens her hunched back. Clarke sighs and reluctantly begins to pull her arms away, but a tentative hand catches her wrist. Afraid that she’s imagining things, she tries once more to release the Commander, but is met with the same timid resistance. Certain that Lexa does not want her to let go, she stays, once again hiding her face in the intricate braids cascading down the brunette’s back. 

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, feebly attempting once more to convince the Commander. Lexa lets out a heavy sigh, and her head droops slightly. She says nothing, but nothing is better than an angry rebuttal. Clarke accepts it as a victory, however small, and allows them to fall into silence again. Her fingers fumble absently with the soft fabric of Lexa’s shirt, where it sticks out from beneath the armor. 

The brunette’s breathing finally stabilizes, and she turns around without warning in Clarke’s arms. 

Suddenly, they are close. Closer than they’ve ever been. Lexa’s arms wrap gingerly around Clarke’s shoulders, her hands locking behind the blonde’s neck. Their difference in height in minimal, but still Clarke must look upward slightly to meet Lexa’s gaze. Her expression is soft, so gentle compared to the darkness that loomed there before, and the fire in her eyes is no more than dying embers. Her lips part slightly, and it occurs to Clarke that the brunette is looking at her with a sort of wonder.

She tries to speak, but to no avail. She simply stands there in Lexa’s arms, mesmerized, milking the moment for all it’s worth. These moments are precious and uncertain, and she doesn’t want to miss a thing.

At some point, they must have inched forward, for Clarke can feel the warmth of Lexa’s breath against her lips. It is intoxicating, alluring, but she refrains. She’s not sure if they’re ready, yet, for such levels of intimacy. She’s not sure if  _ she  _ is ready for such intimacy.

Their lips brush in the slightest, and Clarke’s heart nearly bursts through her chest. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. It is something, though, a silent declaration not ready to be expressed. It is far more than enough for now.

The moment passes as quickly as it begun. Lexa gently wriggles out of Clarke’s grip, and Clarke allows her arms to fall slack at her sides. She stops, however, when she sees the hand that Lexa had plummeted into the metal. It’s still bleeding, though slower, and the bruising has gotten worse. Her knuckles are discolored in shades of blue and purple, shrouded by black blood caked around them. Clarke gently reaches for the injured hand, and Lexa hisses in pain when their fingers meet. 

“You’re okay,” Clarke whispers before she can stop herself. She cringes to herself, afraid that Lexa would be bothered by the reassurance, but finds no evidence of that assumption when she looks up to meet her eyes.

“You really need to have this iced,” Clarke insists. Her voice is tremulous, and she feels what wants to be a giddiness rising inside her. It is not the time to be giddy, however, so she is left instead with a swaddling warmth deep in her chest. Her heart flutters every time she meets Lexa’s eyes, and instead resorts to focusing on the patterns of black and blue before her.

“Where I’m going, there’ll be plenty of that. Worry not.”

It is the slightest semblance of a joke, and though it feels morally wrong, Clarke allows herself a small smile despite the sadness that creeps back at the mention of the massacre. Lexa’s lip twitches upward for a moment, but she soon returns to her somber expression.

“When do we leave?”

It’s a bold move, perhaps the boldest of the entire morning, but Lexa seems unperturbed. She hardly even misses a beat before giving her answer.

“Now. We must find the ones responsible for this.”

Clarke nods. She slowly lowers Lexa’s injured hand, then glances back upward to meet her gaze.

“They won’t get away with this,” she promises. Whether the comfort is entirely for Lexa or not, she doesn’t know. Lexa nods curtly, taking a steadying breath. Her back straightens, and already the armor is being built back up. Moments later, the Commander emerges again from the rubble. She is focused and calm, nothing like the wreck from minutes past, and there is a different kind of fire in her eyes.

“Jus drein jus daun,” she says, lifting her chin.

Clarke straightens herself, her hands folded behind her back, and narrows her eyes at the Commander.

“Jus drein just daun.”

They set their jaws and walk toward the door, knowing penance for those men, women, and children is soon to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this story so much. I miss Clexa.

IV. Fear

 

“Thank you, Titus. That will be all.”

From the bed, where Clarke has already all but collapsed, the battered woman hears a quiet acknowledgement from Lexa’s guard followed by footsteps receding down the hallway. Lexa slowly closes the enormous pane of glass until it clicks shut. After a moment of resting her forehead against the cool glass, the Commander turns around to face Clarke.

She trudges to the bed, her feet dragging against her will. By the time she actually reaches the edge of the bed where Clarke resides, she can no longer support her weight. Her knees wobble momentarily, then buckle beneath her. She lets out a huff of air as she collapses onto the furs next to Clarke, trying to hide the way she winces as she lands. (Try, however, is the key word, for she does not succeed.)

“You’re wearing at least thirty pounds of armor, Lexa,” Clarke says, her voice raspy from screaming. She hopes that the Commander will take her hint, so as not to outwardly baby her. Her hopes come true moments later; Lexa slowly reaches up with trembling hands and grabs at the buckles on her armor. An ache pangs at Clarke’s heart as she realizes the Commander can’t steady her hands enough to even undress herself. It’s almost jarring to see her so physically weak.

Clarke isn’t much better, but she does her best to ignore it as she gently reaches over to assist. Lexa doesn’t protest. Her hands fall slack in lap, and she stares blankly into the concrete floor as Clarke carefully releases the buckles keeping her armor together. When they’re all undone, Lexa shrugs the shoulderpiece off and pulls the belts around her waist away from her body. They fall to the floor with a soft thud, already forgotten the moment they’re out of sight. Clarke’s own armor soon joins the pile, to be separated later.

They sit there, unmoving and silent, for what feels like hours. The only sound in the room is labored breathing coming from the both of them.

Clarke glances over after a few moments, growing concerned about the Commander. A soft sigh escapes her lips at the sight before her. Lexa’s shoulders are hunched forward as though she’s sinking in on herself, her air of confidence all but gone. Her chin no longer points forward, but instead points toward the floor. Dark purple circles of exhaustion have formed beneath her sunken eyes. She looks empty, only a shell.

Clarke blinks against the sting in her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to move despite the protest from her aching muscles. She gently reaches over and takes Lexa’s hand in her own, examining the damage. Her knuckles are still split from her assault to the sheet of metal in the throne room, but she is riddled with fresh injuries. Various gashes and bruises appear from beneath the tattered shreds of her thin sweater, which is nearly soaked in dark black blood. There are no serious injuries, but everywhere Clarke’s eyes land, there is an injury of some sort.

“Your wounds need cleaned and dressed,” Clarke whispers, promptly clearing her throat in attempt to strengthen her voice. Lexa jerks slightly, startled out of her exhausted trance, and looks over at Clarke. Her tired green eyes meet blue.

“As do yours,” she rebuts, and she isn’t wrong. Clarke is in no better shape. The Ice Nation proved to be as ruthless as they’ve always appeared.

The thought of the effort it will take to clean and dress both their wounds makes Clarke want to sob, but she does not show it. She sighs and steels herself over, then counts down from five to encourage herself to stand. When she hits one, she pushes herself up without thought, and her muscles scream in response to the sudden movement. She grits her teeth and steps around Lexa’s knees, extending her hand.

Lexa looks up and quirks her eyebrow, but she’s already taking the extended hand.

“Let’s go clean up,” Clarke whispers. She gently pulls Lexa to her feet, catching her when she stumbles. With one arm wrapped around each other and the other slack at their sides, they trudge to the washroom connected to the Commander’s quarters. Clarke presumes there are washrags and soap, though the thought of the soap stinging their wounds makes her cringe. Still, she knows it must be done, and tells herself it’ll only sting for a while.

They reach the washroom. Without hesitation, they shed their overclothes, and are quickly left only in chest bindings and shorts that cling to their thighs. Clarke sighs as she sees the black soaking through the back of Lexa’s bindings, the edges of a gash peeking out either side of the cloth.

“This will only take a few minutes, I promise,” she reassures, wetting a cloth under the faucet. Lexa doesn’t respond. She’s staring blankly into space again, completely unaware.

Clarke’s eyes linger on the girl’s empty stare for a moment longer, then she sets to work.

It takes longer than expected to clean each significant gash, and through it all Lexa’s only response is cringing every now and then. She doesn’t speak for the entire process, instead continuing to stare into nothingness.

As Clarke rinses the last of the black out of the washcloth, Lexa finally springs to life. She wordlessly takes the cloth from Clarke’s shaking hands and runs it under warm water. A moment later, the blonde feels gentle strokes of the cloth against her worst wound, a gash on her left side near her ribs. Despite the emotional comfort it brings to feel Lexa’s care, she hisses against the physical pain. She jerks involuntarily away from the cloth, but Lexa follows with soft strokes.

After a few more moments of silence, Clarke finally speaks.

“Why so pensive?” she asks, though the question nearly answers itself; where they’ve just come home from, there are a myriad of things she could be thinking. Still, curiosity wins over, and Clarke waits for Lexa’s reply.

She doesn’t recieve it - at least, not immediately. Lexa simply continues to clean the wounds covering Clarke’s body, taking great care to avoid inflicting pain as much as possible. Every now and then Clarke winces and has to bite her tongue to keep from yelping, but the process is mostly bearable.

Only when all of their wounds are cleaned and dressed does Lexa respond.

“I just can’t process it,” she breathes, a rush of air passing her lips. It is as though she deflates with each word; her shoulders hunch forward again, and she sinks into herself until she looks small and girlish.

“Process what?” Clarke presses. She takes the black and red cloth from Lexa’s still trembling hands and turns the knob for hot water to the left. The washbasin begins filling with steaming water, perfect for getting the blood out of the cloth.

“The severity of the loss,” Lexa replies, sniffling softly. Clarke spins around, concerned. Lexa is not crying, but her nose runs and her voice is hoarse. A cold is settling in her body, Clarke surmises.

“From the clan that the Ice Nation invaded?” she asks, now, turning back around to shut off the water and place the rag in the steaming liquid. It burns her fingers, and she jerks them back quickly. They throb uncomfortably as she walks over to where Lexa stands.

“Before you answer, can we lay down?” Clarke asks sheepishly. She means nothing by it; her limbs are jelly, and even standing still takes energy she does not have. They haven’t slept in almost two days.

Lexa nods slowly and leads her toward the bed. They fall into it, not bothering to slide under the furs, and Clarke allows herself a sigh of bliss. The softness is intoxicating, and it is all she can do to keep her eyes open for a few minutes longer.

“To answer your question, yes,” Lexa replies a few moments later. Clarke forces her eyes back open, fighting the lead that pulls them down.

“To stand there, helpless to save your child, or your husband, your wife…”

The Commander trails off, going quiet. Clarke turns her head so that she can see Lexa’s face, barely illuminated by the sole candle on the bedside and the light of the moon. Still, she shows little emotion; she looks perplexed instead. She breathes slowly, and Clarke watches the way her chest rises and falls in rhythm.

They don’t touch; not quite. They both lay on their backs, the queen sized bed so large that there is enough room for them both to stretch their limbs so that they are sprawled openly across the furs. Lexa’s dark skin and rippling muscles are on full display. Clarke could almost grin as she catches sight of the tiny bit of softness on the Commander’s sides: a tiny imperfection that makes her human. Clarke drinks her in unabashedly, relishing this precious moment of quiet.

“I cannot stop thinking of how it felt to lose in the way that they did.”

It is a quiet admission, perhaps reluctant. Clarke can read between the lines, though; she knows exactly to what, or rather whom, Lexa refers. The thought makes her heart ache in her bruised chest, and her eyes begin to sting. She blinks a few times, willing the pain away.

There are no words that encapsulate this feeling, so Clarke makes no sound. She listens to Lexa’s breathing, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t speak. Her breathing begins to accelerate, and each breath comes out ragged and shallow. Clarke jolts up, her concern kicking into overdrive, and she scoots closer to the Commander. Lexa’s wide eyes are fixated on the cieling above, her brow furrowed above them.

 _She’s panicking,_ Clarke realizes.

Without asking, or even thinking, she lifts Lexa’s torso off the furs and pulls her close, careful to avoid contact with the wound on her back. Lexa responds almost immediately. She wraps her strong arms around Clarke vehemently, latching onto her as if she was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her quick breaths are hot against Clarke’s collarbone, and they do not slow.

Clarke does the only thing she can think of, which is simply to hold her. She holds onto her with as much strength as she can muster. She doesn’t know when she started, but she realizes that she’s rocking the two of them gently back and forth, soft shushing sounds passing automatically from her lips into Lexa’s reddened ear.

“You’re okay,” Clarke promises, a lump rising in her throat. “You’re okay.”

Lexa’s breathing stutters, now, stopping for a few seconds at a time and then continuing with a heavy exale. Her body shakes, and Clarke’s suspicions are confirmed when she feels droplets sliding down her chest. On instict, one hand reaches up and wraps itself in Lexa’s hair. Tremulous fingers thread through matted and knotted hair as best as they can.

“T-they sent me pieces,” Lexa stutters, struggling to get words out. “They s-sent me pieces of her…”

 _Her._ Clarke was right.

“I’m here, I’m listening,” she reassures, rocking still. She presses her lips to the Commander’s temple, resting them there for a moment.

“Her extremities first, and t-then… and then her limbs,” Lexa continues, a sob cutting her off. She takes a deep and ragged breath, one that Clarke can hear rattling in her lungs, then continues.

“They sent me her head last,” she reveals in horror. Something of a whine pushes up her throat, and all at once she breaks into sobs against Clarke’s chest.

Her nails dig into Clarke’s skin, fingers twisted in the bindings as she tries desperately to ground herself. Clarke continues to spout words of comfort, not even sure that they’re coming out as words anymore, and she can’t will away the tears as they pool in her eyes. Panic rises in her own chest as she prays for some way to make this better. She prays for some way to take this away, for Lexa to be able to just _breathe._

“B-breathe, Lexa,” she mutters, “breathe…”

“I can’t do it again,” Lexa replies instantly, not taking a single breath. “I can’t. I can’t…”

The statement pulls Clarke from her panic for a moment as she tries to process. Again?

_Oh._

Again.

Suddenly the pieces fall together all at once. A surge of conflicting emotions courses through the blonde. It is so strong that she has to remind herself to breathe, too, despite how tight her throat has become.

“Listen to me,” Clarke pleads, her voice like gravel. She tightens her grip around the Commander, pulling her closer yet. Lexa does not protest; she buries her face in the blonde’s neck, taking shuddering breaths against Clarke’s skin. Her entire body trembles in Clarke’s hands.

“You will not lose me,” Clarke swears. “Ai swega yu klin.”

She expects Lexa to begin to cry again, to crumble to dust in her arms so that Clarke may never be able to put the pieces back together again, but she doesn’t. A long, drawn out exhale passes Lexa’s lips and warms Clarke’s already burning skin. The shuddering lessens slowly until completely ceases. Her breathing slows, though still shallow, and soon the only remnant of the brunette’s panic is the occasional hitch of breath in her throat.

Clarke gently lowers them so that she lies on her back with Lexa curled into her side. She relishes in the release of her muscles and allows her eyes to fall shut for only a moment, but promptly forces them open again. She cannot sleep; not yet.

A memory comes to mind, one from not so long ago. She ponders it for a moment, wondering if she should share it. She wonders if it is too much, too far of a leap in their relationship.

Her exhaustion hinders her judgement, however, and she begins to speak without thinking.

“I had a dream a while back,” she recalls, the details vivid in her mind. Lexa looks up at her, pulling back from her neck slightly so that she can see the blonde’s face.

“There was this man in my room… I couldn’t see his face,” she continues, feeling her heartbeat picking up.

“Your quarters here, or on the Ark?” Lexa asks. Clarke carefully scoots her body downward, still holding Lexa, until they can meet eye to eye. Lexa’s eyes are wide and full of curiosity and concern as she speaks.

“Here,” Clarke admits softly, realizing that she has claimed a part of this place as her own. She hopes she has not overstepped, and she scans Lexa’s expression for any sign of a mistake. All she finds is bright green eyes looking back at her, hanging onto her every word.

“Anyway… I couldn’t see his face,” Clarke says, clearing her throat. “He had a gun, and he kept shooting at me. And then you came in, and…”

She trails off, not sure if she can say the words aloud. The image haunts her every day, and vocalizing it makes it seem more real. Too real.

“I was struck,” Lexa finishes, putting the pieces together. She sighs, absently nuzzling closer to Clarke. Clarke thinks she can feel lips pressing softly to her collarbone, but she isn’t sure. She writes it off to imagination and lies there, waiting for Lexa to speak again.

“Did I survive? In your dream?”

Clarke sighs, a quick rush of air from her lungs. Even as she closes her eyes, she can feel them begin to burn.

Lexa does not ask again when Clarke doesn’t reply; the silence is answer enough. Instead, she wraps her arms tighter yet around the blonde’s middle and buries her face in the crook of her neck. Clarke latches on to her this time around. She needs a reminder, a living and breathing reminder, that Lexa has not gone anywhere.

It occurs to Clarke that this is the most physical contact they have ever had.

They lie there for a few minutes, listening to each other’s breathing. The Polis tower is silent tonight; not even the guards can be heard scuffling around. It is just the two of them, breathing, alive.

Clarke isn’t sure when, but Lexa falls into a restful sleep. Her eyes fall shut, and her expression is calm. She looks at peace, a rare sight in the years that they’ve known each other. She breathes deeply and slowly against Clarke’s nearly bare chest.

Clarke turns her head slowly, so as not to wake the sleeping woman, and kisses her forehead. It is not a press of lips, a passing brush; this time, it is a kiss. Perhaps Lexa will never know that it occurred, but it is a kiss, and it is a wordless declaration. Clarke’s lips linger there for a few moments longer before she reluctantly pulls away, settling back into her former position.

Sleep beckons, but Clarke resists. This moment is too precious, too timeless to let it pass by just yet. She fights the heaviness of her eyelids in favor of just a few more minutes of committing this scene to memory. She longs for a piece of parchment and paint to immortalize it, there to revisit whenever she desires. Still, she would not dare move and risk waking the sleeping girl in her arms.

Before she can think, she speaks.

“I love you, Lexa.”

It hits her like a tidal wave, crashing over her faster than she can keep up with. Tears fill her eyes out of nowhere, and sobs of grief and joy bubble in her chest so that the wind is knocked out of her.

She _loves_ Lexa.

It’s always been there. From the day they met, she was enamored, despite the fact that she shouldn’t have been. In all the wrong moments, she has longed for her. She longed for her comfort when she pressed the blade into Finn’s chest. She longed for her comfort even after the events of Mount Weather. She yearned to spin the woman around as she walked away, to tell her to stay, that it was okay, that she understood even when she was seething with anger and near-hatred. Since their reunion just months ago, every moment has been a battle between her desires and her reality. Every moment has been pushing it down, ignoring it, not allowing herself to admit how much she _loves_ Lexa.

But she does. Try as she might to run from it, she cannot hide. She loves Lexa completely and infinitely, even if she shouldn’t.

Hot droplets stream down Clarke’s cheeks as her body shakes. She tries hard to be still, to be silent, for she is afraid of what happens if Lexa wakes. Then, she will have to explain, and she may put distance between them that cannot be closed for a long time.

Clarke is startled out of her cries when slender fingers brush down her arm. They slowly drag along Clarke’s skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, until they reach her hand where it’s resting on the Commander’s shoulder. Lexa intertwines their fingers and rests their hands on the blonde’s soft stomach, setting them down as though they both might break.

“Ai hod yu in seintaim, Klark.”

She’s already drifting to sleep, so she doesn’t know if she imagined the words or not. Still, whether they are a dream or a reality, they are all she needs to finally succumb to sleep. The sun is already rising on the horizon, but they will deal with the day when it arrives. For now, it is just the two of them, breathing, alive, loved.


End file.
